


Finding Fiona

by AsheTarasovich (natalieashe), natalieashe



Series: Kid on a Bus [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Children, Gen, Humor, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/pseuds/AsheTarasovich, https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/pseuds/natalieashe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is intent on finding Fiona and discovering more about her uncle</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Staking out the Playground

Sherlock jogged briskly through the park, his long limbs moving easily despite the flared coat that billowed out behind him. John just kept pace, breathlessly regretting his failure to maintain his fitness in his Sherlock-free years.

"Why are we running?" He addressed the detective's back.

"Because I don't want to be late," he threw back over his shoulder. He didn't elaborate, just put on another turn of speed easily outpacing his friend. Moments later he took a sharp left around a hedge and skidded to a halt, John almost crashing into him as he too rounded the corner. "Perfect," he announced dropping onto a park bench. He had not a bead of perspiration, John noted crossly, as he struggled to catch his breath. "You're out of shape John."

"Why are we here?" John failed to hide his irritation, frowning around the park.

"We're working."

"On what? And why  _here_?" He asked again. The children's play area was quiet, only a couple of young mothers pushing a pair of giggling toddlers on the swings.

"Because any minute now the home bell will ring in that primary school across the road, and a stream of small children will descend on this park."

"And that's important... Why?"

"Because John," Sherlock replied, finally looking at him, "I am expecting Fiona to be amongst them."

"Fiona...? You mean the little girl from the bus? I thought you'd finally dismissed her stories as a kid's over active imagination?"

"It's been preying on my mind, so I decided to find out more about her. Moriarty, or an accomplice of his, hijacked millions of screens across the country suggesting he is still alive, but all of Mycroft's resources have failed to turn up any hard evidence so far. Suddenly we have a chance meeting with a child on a bus who tells us she's his niece, and not only that, she has seen him in the flesh  _after_  he is supposed to have died. Coincidences like that just don't happen, John, the universe is rarely so lazy. She was placed in our path for a purpose, and I intend to find out why?"

Right on cue the shrill sound of an electronic bell heralded the exodus of children from the primary school. Most turned left or right, and headed up the street towards home, but more than a dozen parents escorted their offspring across the road and through the playground gates. Sherlock watched them fixedly waiting for one particular little girl, while John paced nervously beside him. "This isn't right. We shouldn't be doing this. Two grown men, loitering in a playground…" he muttered.

"Relax, John, we're not doing anything wrong. Sit down, before you attract attention. You look shifty."

"Of course I look shifty. I'm in a park  _without_  a child,  _with_  a man who thinks it's perfectly ok to stare at a load of kids. I don't think the parents are going to stop and ask too many questions about our purpose for being here, do you? Oh Christ! Some of them are watching  _us_  now? Can't we just  _go_?"

"Hang on… look there she is!" John turned to the gate and watched a dark haired woman push a pram through the gates. Holding tightly to the handle of the pram a small dark figure with pigtails bounced alongside her and chattered excitedly. The woman nodded in response to a question and the little girl raced away into the park, squealing to a gaggle of hyperactive children who chased a ball. John couldn't help grinning to himself, thinking of the day he would be watching his own daughter having such noisy fun with her friends. The clicking of a camera shutter alerted him to the fact Sherlock was making a serious mistake. He threw himself in front of the detective and snatched Sherlock's phone from his hand.

"For god's sake Sherlock you cannot – I repeat  _cannot_! – take photographs of other peoples' children. You are going to get us arrested! This is one of those non-negotiable things!" He hissed, holding the phone out of a protesting Sherlock's reach. Angry yells behind him, announced he was probably too late. "Crap! Run!" He hauled Sherlock to his feet and they both took off back the way they had come across the main stretch of the park towards the northern gate.

"This is ridiculous," panted Sherlock, "Why are we running away? I need to talk to that woman."

"You've seriously pissed off half a dozen parents, that's why and…  _oh shit_ …" They hurtled through the north gate just as a police car skidded to a stop by the kerb, blue lights blazing. Its two occupants leaped out and grabbed John, wrestling him to the ground, one of them forcibly removing Sherlock's phone from his grip.

"Hey!" yelled Sherlock, wading in and attempting to grab back his precious phone. The policeman allowed it to fall to the ground, instead launching himself at Sherlock's knees and bringing him crashing to the floor on top of it. Quite a crowd had gathered to watch the show by the time a second car arrived on the street. The new officers pulled Sherlock away from the furious fat policeman before he could carry out any of his threats, and bundled him into the car. John was mortified so willingly got into the other car just to disassociate himself from whatever dire warnings the detective was issuing. It was going to be another one of those days...

 


	2. Sitting in the Cells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade is not happy to see the wayward detective and his doctor

John paced around the cell like an angry caged tiger, door to bench, wall to wall. The acrid smell of bleach did little to mask the smell of stale urine and vomit; he was sure it was being absorbed into his clothing like smoke. Sherlock sat cross legged on the bench with his eyes closed, trying to pretend he was unaware that John was livid with him. He didn't really understand why John was so wound up about the photographs. He took photos all the time at crime scenes, but this was another of those invisible lines he'd crossed apparently. Perhaps a large line that he'd hurdled, judging by the police reaction too. He'd only wanted to study the facial features of both Fiona and her mother, and compare them to James Moriarty. That was a legitimate exercise in ascertaining the potential validity of Fiona's story surely?

"More than thirty years, Sherlock! Most of my life in fact! I avoided any trouble with the police for all that time, and then I met you! Since then I've been thrown in a cell every other month, usually as a result of some scheme of yours!"

"Don't exaggerate. It's three or four times a year max. Anyway, you've only ever been charged once."

"When we get out of here I am actually going to kill you. In fact, I'm going to let Mary kill you, before she then kills me."

"Mary will be fine John... I always send you home in one piece."

The cell door opened admitting a furious DI Lestrade. "What in the bloody hell have you two been up to  _now_?" He bellowed. "This is the last time I'm going to bail you out of trouble Sherlock, do you hear me? And you... Can't you keep him on a bloody leash, or something? He's a menace!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and muttered a sullen comment that Lestrade doubted was an apology. "This is serious Sherlock. You're lucky I have a mate in the family protection unit who believes you had no ill intentions towards those kids. He owes me a favour so he called me to say you were both here, and practically begged me to come take you off his hands. The custody sergeant is desperate to get rid of you too."

"Thanks Greg, we appreciate it, don't we Sherlock? So what happens now?"

"You're taking me to the pub to say thanks properly, and explain what's going on."

The pub was busy for a Tuesday night but Sherlock managed to acquire a table by looming over a group of teenagers barely old enough to drink. They shuffled off towards the quiz machine, gripping their halves of cider and grumbling about 'old people needing to sit down to drink'. "Cheeky gits, I'm probably only their parents' age," moaned Lestrade, choosing to ignore Sherlock's sarcastic snort. "So... What's all this about? I know you two aren't into kiddies so there has to be some logical explanation for you hanging around playgrounds."

"Playground, singular. And I don't make a habit of it, not even for work!" Growled John.

Lestrade scowled at Sherlock who studiously avoided meeting the policeman's eyes even when he slapped a folded newspaper down in front of him and pointed at a two inch report on page five. "That was you too, wasn't it?"

John leaned forward to read. "Police are warning parents to be vigilant after reports were received of a man watching children in two local play parks. The man is described as tall, dark-haired...  _Sherlock?_ "

"Third time lucky. I thought it would look less suspicious if I had a companion. I was looking for Fiona of course. Those three parks lie along the bus route so I decided they would be a logical place to start looking."

"Who's Fiona? Some love-child I don't know about? Shady past finally caught up with you?"

"Don't be ridiculous Glen."

"Greg!"

"Whatever! John, bring the Detective Inspector up to speed while I think..."


	3. Anderson's Little Theories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is interested in the Empty Hearse's theories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in Sherlock-ville it's probably closer to 3 years since Moriarty was last heard of, but my typing fingers keep insisting on two, so that's how it stays. And it's a bit dialogue heavy, sorry.

"So what you're saying is Moriarty also faked his own death, allowed you to completely dismantle his international network, and after two years has decided he wants to be back in the game. Oh, and he sent his six year old niece on a mission to let his old adversary Sherlock Holmes know he's alive and well, and ready to play? Sounds a bit far-fetched to me. Why wait two years?"

"How did he fake his suicide? You were a foot away from him when he blew his own head off. There was blood."

"'How' is interesting, but the intelligent question is 'why'?"

"To force you to jump off the roof and kill yourself. We know this."

"Yes, but if he had thought of an elaborate plan to fake his death, he would expect that I would have one too. He's almost as smart as me! I don't believe he would do anything as final as suicide before checking I was really dead. How would he be certain he'd achieved his objective?"

"He was a psychopath. His gunmen had your friends in their sights. He'd rely on you to jump to save us so we wouldn't die."

"If he knew me as well as he claimed, he would know that sentiment wouldn't have forced my hand." Sherlock grinned at them both. "Much as I like you..."

"You bastard!"

"Relax Greg, he's winding us up."

"It's a legitimate consideration though. I have a reputation for being cold and lacking empathy. Moriarty suddenly bets his life against my very nature? I don't believe he'd be that sure of his odds. Or... What if the Moriarty I saw die wasn't the  _real_  Moriarty?"

"What, like he had an evil twin, or something?" Snorted John.

"Unlikely, but not impossible. I was thinking more a puppet... A decoy. Maybe the face of Moriarty isn't the reality."

"This is all starting to sound like some of Anderson's wild conspiracy theories. You two should get together."

"Excellent idea," said Sherlock, leaping to his feet. "You two pursue the twin theory. I have to see a man about a suicide!"

* * *

Anderson's flat was so cold, Sherlock could see steam rising from the coffee mugs as the bearded man carried them from the tiny kitchen. He wore at least two thick sweaters and a pair of gloves against the chill. "Sorry, heating's off" he explained, "forgot to pay the bill."

More like couldn't afford it, now he wasn't working. Sherlock's sharp eyes had already spotted the final demand on the coffee table. Somehow his disappearance had rippled out and affected far more lives than he ever intended. "I have a job for you." Anderson just nodded, so Sherlock carried on. "You've redecorated," he said, gesturing to the wall that had formerly displayed all of the Empty Hearse's intelligence on his whereabouts. It was freshly painted a cheerful sunshine yellow that assaulted Sherlock's eyes. "I don't like it. Where is all the data, I need it?"

"Destroyed most of it. Once you'd explained it all... Well there didn't seem much point."

"Ok, well we'll have to rely on your memory then. You know that I jumped and didn't die, obviously, but your little club came up with all kinds of theories about how and why I'd done it. I need you to tell me all of them that included Moriarty in some way."

"Well he was there on the roof with you, so they  _all_  do to some extent, it's just his role that changes depending on your reasons for doing what you did." Anderson was interested now, leaning eagerly towards the detective as he tried to remember. "Sworn enemy, secret ally, spurned lover... All would give you both reasons for what happened."

"Lover?" Said Sherlock incredulously.

Anderson had the grace to look embarrassed. "Yeah, one of our group was pretty sure you eloped and were living happily ever after somewhere, or you'd killed yourselves in some kind if lovers suicide pact."

"Ridiculous. If we could please discount any sordid little sex fantasies or secret love trysts that would be most helpful. Continue..."

"Ok. One of the most plausible was that you had formed some sort of criminal partnership and had used the double suicide as a means of disappearing to start up a joint operation somewhere, probably abroad."

"Why would we move abroad? I don't believe Moriarty would be so considerate to leave good old Great Britain alone. I certainly wouldn't... Too much fun getting up Mycroft's nose. Interesting though, and a plausible theory, but didn't happen. Next..."

"Moriarty's death wasn't suicide, you murdered him and made it appear to be self-inflicted. Depending on whether or not you felt any remorse, you either jumped to your death or faked your suicide to disappear and escape the consequences."

"Holes miles wide in that one. I'm obviously not dead, and I came back without any fear of punishment. Also, I didn't do it, but if I did I wouldn't feel the slightest regret."

"Ok, the rest mostly rely on Moriarty not being dead, which I get the feeling may be true...?"

"No proof, but it certainly seems that way."

"One theory was that he'd been spirited away by the British Government, possibly kept as a prisoner... More likely employed as a consultant for the anti-terror agencies. Who better to offer advice than a former terrorist?"

"Hmm. Worth exploring... But most of Moriarty's attacks had a very personal feel. I've no doubt he had an agenda but it was his own, not affiliated to any cause but his own advancement in the world. Any more?"

"They're all variations on what I've told you. I think the interesting thing is how he did it, or rather who helped him? There had to be some kind of theatrical input - special effects, if you like - to convince you that he'd shot the back of his head off. There was definitely a post-mortem, so there had to have been a body... My money was on Molly Hooper because she signed off all the autopsy material, but I can't explain why she would help both of you. Unless...?"

"No, we did not run away together!"

"Just a thought..."


	4. No Such Thing as Coincidence

At 221B Baker Street John and DI Lestrade sat huddled in front of John's laptop searching Irish birth registrations for the months around James Moriarty's birthdate. In the hour since they had returned from the pub Lestrade had secured them access to records not publicly available, but it was still a trawl through masses of data which was largely irrelevant. John sat back in his chair and regarded his notebook - four possibilities, two single births, two possible twin registrations of two males or a male and female.

"Do you really believe the Moriarty we know is a front?" Asked Lestrade.

"No, I don't. The man I encountered was a talented actor, convincing liar and devious trickster, with no regard for human life or the consequences of his actions. I'm certain that if Moriarty is alive, it's the same man who dressed me in an explosive jacket, and the same man that apparently died on the rooftop. He's clearly working with other people though. Sherlock needed assistance to pull off his ruse - Moriarty would have too."

"What about this little girl? Where does she fit in?"

John thought back to the day they'd taken the bus. "Sherlock is sure she was a plant because he doesn't believe in coincidence. I think that if coincidence exists, this is a truly remarkable one. There are two reasons we were on that bus. Number one, we were heading to the far side of London to view a body for a case. Molly Hooper had arranged it at Sherlock's insistence. I believe his reason at the time was simply that he was bored. The case itself was trivial and hardly needed Sherlock's skills in the end, which begs the question why we were approached? Two, there was a tube strike that day which made it impossible for us to take a cab, Sherlock's preferred mode of transport. Hence, we took the bus."

"Was the girl already on the bus when you sat down?"

"No... I'm pretty sure they got on at the same stop but after we were already seated. "

"The child seems to have made quite an impression on our detective."

"He actually likes kids. Well, intelligent ones anyway - not so keen on little screaming sticky ones. I suppose he's just an overgrown precocious kid himself at times. He can relate to kids like that now in a way he never could when he was their age. She was very engaging and clever, and of course she had the magic ingredient."

"Cute charm?"

"Uncle Jimmy."

Lestrade fished in his pocket and pulled out a memory stick, pushing it into the USB port on the laptop.

"What's that?"

"Something I'll deny ever having if the Yard finds out. The photos Sherlock took of the girl and her mother. A guy in IT copied them off the phone before we erased them, in case I needed them as evidence."

There were three photographs taken in quick succession each showing a reasonably clear picture of the pair. John zoomed in on the faces but the image became too pixellated to be of much use in detailed facial comparison. "Camera phones aren't very good for this kind of thing," he explained, "Resolution of the image is too low to pick out fine detail at distance." He zoomed out again and studied the first picture. Fiona's mother was turned to her right, the little girl skipping by her side, face upturned looking at her mother. She seemed taller than he remembered, and then another detail struck him. "Greg, is that a scarf hanging down the front of her coat?"

The DI examined the picture and shook his head. "Pretty sure it's her hair, why?"

"She has long hair. The woman on the bus had short hair. I remember because she kept rubbing the back of her neck as though her collar was annoying her. Also, the woman in this photo is more petite than the woman on the bus, shorter and slimmer."

"So maybe this isn't her Mum? Childminder maybe?"

"No, I'm sure this is her mother. In the short time I watched them there was a very easy manner between them. Their movements and gestures were similar and they were chattering when they came into the park. Not conclusive evidence I know, but my gut tells me they were close family. The woman on the bus barely acknowledged her. In fact I don't believe she spoke a single word to her on the whole trip. Fiona said she was listening to an MP3 player or something so she wouldn't have to listen to the girl talk."

"Not exactly parent of the year then, but we've all had days like that with our kids."

"I need to talk to Sherlock; he notices more than he realises at times." He checked his watch. "Christ, it's almost one! Mary will think I'm not coming home again. You coming?"

Greg stretched. "I'll kip down here and wait for Sherlock. Nothing worth going home for right now. Besides, I have a day off-shift tomorrow and I get the feeling I'm going to spend it keeping our beloved detective friend out of mischief."

John nodded sympathetically, and with a quick 'see ya' he headed home to his wife. Greg made himself another coffee then stretched out on the sofa in front if the TV. He was curled up fast asleep under his coat when Sherlock arrived home after three. The detective padded to his bedroom returning a moment later with a blanket which he laid gently over the sleeping man. Lestrade didn't wake, just snuggled deeper into the cushions and the welcoming cosy blanket. "Night Greg," he said softly and headed back to his room.


	5. Making Deductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everything was as it seemed...

Sherlock woke to the smell of bacon and clattering in the kitchen. On weekends John and Mary sometimes turned up at the flat to cook breakfast and read the papers, but today was definitely Wednesday and they would both be at work. Deciding that burglars would be unlikely to break in to enjoy a snack, he concluded that Lestrade was still around. He was about to roll over and go back to sleep when there was a knock on his bedroom door and a silver head appeared.

"Oh good, you're awake. Breakfast in five. And are you aware there's something green festering in your fridge? It's balanced on top of the eggs, so I'm not touching them." He disappeared back to the kitchen leaving Sherlock to get dressed. Reluctantly he pulled on his dressing gown and followed him. Lestrade was in the kitchen, shirt sleeves rolled up, attending to a frying pan. He'd cleared the table of all Sherlock's clutter and wiped it down, then laid two places. A steaming mug of tea sat beside each setting.

"I thought John was domesticated, but this is..."

"The wife's influence. She can't bear crumbs outside the kitchen."

"I don't even recall what the green stuff is in the fridge. John would probably have thrown it out by now."

"I am  _not_  cleaning your fridge Sherlock. We need to review this case of yours." He placed a thick bacon sandwich and a bottle of ketchup in front of him. "This is the only bottle in date, the other three went in the bin." The sandwich was perfect, thick cut bread with a scraping of butter, bacon cooked so just the very edges had turned golden and crispy. Lestrade hadn't skimped on the slices either, folding six rashers into each. Sherlock added a generous dollop of ketchup and tucked in.

Breakfast done, they carried fresh mugs of tea to the laptop on the desk. Lestrade had updated Sherlock on the work he and John had completed the previous evening and Sherlock was keen to view the photos. "That's definitely not the woman from the bus," he confirmed. "She was broader in the shoulder, more solidly built."

"What else do you remember? Her face or voice?"

"I don't think she spoke. Let me think..." He placed two fingers on his right temple, the other hand drumming softly on the desktop as he retreated to his mind palace.

_Coat, navy blue, worn at the shoulders so not new, but too tight. Why had she kept it? Collar... Annoying... Keeps rolling her neck as if uncomfortable... Coat too small... So again, why is she still wearing it? Can't afford to replace it? Borrowed? Yes, not hers, it's borrowed, doesn't fit properly. Hair, dark brown almost black, definitely short... Hat, pale blue, worn to the side hiding facial features from behind. Bus stopping... Hand reaching out to child, bitten nails not manicured, large hand... Large for a woman! Not female? A man dressed as a woman?_

He slapped the desk hard causing Lestrade to jump. "How could I be so slow?" He demanded. "Oh she was brilliant, a credit to the Moriarty name. A true trickster, and so young!"

"What are you on about?" Lestrade couldn't follow the babbling detective. "Who was the woman?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Sherlock, I hate it when you play superior detective versus dumb policeman. Just tell me, yeah?"

"The child was playing a game, showing off, showing me how clever she was at noticing things."

"Sounds like someone not too far from here..." Huffed Lestrade.

"Exactly! It was a test. And one in which I failed most spectacularly, I might add. I had completely dismissed the child's mother as worthy of any notice. She was bland, and did nothing to catch my attention, while the child directed me to other passengers on the bus and made deductions about them. She skilfully manipulated my attention away from her 'mother'."

"I still have no clue what you're on about? Who is the girl's mother?"

"Sister, sister-in-law... We have yet to determine that. But the woman on the bus, I am certain, was none other than Uncle Jimmy!"

"What? Moriarty in drag? Or a sex change? Is that why he's been absent for two years?"

"Don't be stupid. A simple, and rather poor disguise that I would have normally seen through in an instant were I not so captivated by a very smart and interesting child. Clever!"

"But why would he think of using a child against you? You're not exactly known for being family-oriented?"

"Novelty, or some complex scheme, I don't know yet. It allowed him to get close to me without me even being aware of it, which could be the sole reason. I'm absolutely certain that he's alive now and that he's moved his threat up a level. Our task now is to find out what he's planning. Unfortunately that means we need to pay a visit to my brother."


	6. The Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft would know...

Following a hasty flurry of text messages, a sleek black car pulled up to the kerb outside 221B. Sherlock and Lestrade clambered into the back without acknowledging the uniformed driver. They travelled in agreeable silence watching the rainy streets of London give way to leafier suburbs until they finally reached a road with large gated properties.

"Hmm, new place, not visited here before." Sherlock murmured. The door was opened by a uniformed maid in a smart black dress and starched apron. Sherlock smirked at Lestrade "Mycroft has a penchant for period drama which it seems he's taking to extremes. Mark my words there'll be a butler about somewhere." Lestrade grinned back.

"It certainly fits with his stuffy image. Fancies himself lord of the manor does he?"

The maid hovered by an open door waiting to be noticed. Sherlock rewarded her with a brilliant smile and swept past her into a spotless cream sitting room, Lestrade following in his wake. "Please inform Mycroft his younger brother has arrived." She bobbed a curtsy and disappeared into the dim hallway closing the door behind her. Sherlock dropped onto a pristine sofa, lounging casually against the cushions with his long legs outstretched. Lestrade lingered by the fireplace afraid to move for fear he soiled something in the immaculate room.

"What are you hoping Mycroft can tell us?"

"Anderson had some theories on Moriarty's suicide that, if true, would have had my brother at the very heart of them. I want to know if there is any truth to them. I suspect I have been manipulated into solving a problem for my brother that has now come back to haunt us."

"Moriarty?"

"Indeed."

The door opened admitting a tall lean figure who strode purposefully across the room and folded himself into an armchair across from Sherlock. Lestrade and Sherlock gawped at him for a moment, astounded by the normally dapper man's leisurely apparel. "You're wearing  _jeans_!" spluttered Sherlock, dissolving into fits of laughter. "I have  _never_  seen you wear denim in your life! And what the hell is on that t-shirt? Is that a  _skull_?" Behind Mycroft Holmes, Lestrade was similarly doubled up in mirth.

"If it will cause this childish behaviour to cease I will change," he said coldly, icy blue eyes glaring at the giggling pair.

"Sorry... Sorry..." Sherlock waved his hand peering at the t-shirt more closely, "but what's an Acid Demon when it's at home?"

"They're a band."

"A band? Like a music band? Mycroft Holmes is dressed as a music fan? Since when, and what the hell for? You hate music!"

"It's not important." He frowned behind him at Lestrade. "Will you please sit? Conversation is so difficult when one has a sniggering policeman behind ones back." Lestrade cautiously edged towards the sofa and perched uneasily beside Sherlock, unable to keep a grin from his lips every time he glanced at the elder Holmes. "I would offer you tea but that would prolong your visit. So, what can I do for you?"

"We have had an encounter with Moriarty? He's alive, but then you knew that."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed and he was instantly alert, the casual demeanor folding away as his official persona enveloped him. His entire bearing reverted to the stiff, controlled stance the other men were so familiar with, making his clothing seem even more incongruous. "What happened?"

"No denial then. Why don't you start by explaining to us how he is alive and well?"

Mycroft gave a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes. He leaned back in his armchair, a movement that was designed to look casual, but was anything but. "What makes you think I would know?"

"Because everything that happened on the rooftop of Bart's was meticulously planned. We had even accounted for the possibility that Moriarty would die, though not necessarily by his own hand."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, startled. "You mean there was a possibility…?"

"That I would kill him, yes, though he relieved me of that responsibility. Apparently." He looked back at his brother who was regarding him thoughtfully. "The entire purpose of the rooftop scenario was to afford us the opportunity to stop Moriarty and to take apart everything he had built. I sacrificed two years of my life Mycroft, and hurt the people closest to me as a result, for the sole objective of halting that psychopath, and seemingly it was for nothing."

"The  _purpose_  was fulfilled, brother dear. Moriarty's entire network single-handedly dismantled by you; his generals either wiped out or discouraged from interfering in the affairs of Britain and its allies. You did exceptionally well, and we are grateful. James Moriarty's plans were thwarted and we all lived happily ever after."

"' _Lived'_  being the operative word, it seems. I'm sure you have access to the kind of people who can create the 'how', so I won't bother asking about that, but I demand to know the 'why' of it! You also have the resources to find out exactly where he is and what he is up to, so it seems suspicious that the British security services are unable to find any evidence of him in the weeks since he miraculously reappeared on our screens. Also, there is the inconsistency that is Molly Hooper…"

"Molly Hooper?" Lestrade repeated, now completely losing track of the conversation.

"Yes, Molly. Anderson told me that Molly had carried out the autopsy on Moriarty's body – she had signed off on the paperwork."

"So?"

"So he had copies of the report. I know that she couldn't possibly have carried out that autopsy at the date and time stated on the documents because she was with John helping him deal with the aftermath of my own death. I have already confirmed with both John and Molly that they were together for the entirety of the two days following my fall. What reason would there be to fake records of an autopsy unless there wasn't actually a body to process?"

Mycroft's face was a blank mask. "You will understand that I had little choice in this matter. James Moriarty's skills highlighted him as a valuable tool to be recruited and utilised to the full. In order to do so however, we had to remove any distractions and prior commitments. We concluded that both aims could be achieved with one resource, namely you, my dear brother. Simply removing him, cutting off the head of his organisation as it were, would not have sufficed – too many waiting in the wings to step up and take his place, causing trouble – so we had to ensure that every cell was subdued. His suicide on the rooftop allowed him to step away from his empire, and enabled us to recruit you to take down everything he had constructed, thus removing  _you_  as a distraction to  _him_. He was delighted to work with us, and rather enjoyed watching you scamper around the world stamping on his toys. We were both rather surprised that you never even considered the possibility that faking two deaths is as simple as faking one, but then grief and sentiment does tend to cloud one's judgement."

Sherlock processed this information in mere seconds. Barely contained anger seethed beneath the surface, but his logical brain acknowledged that his elder sibling had acted entirely within character, and it was he, Sherlock Holmes, who had underestimated him. Mycroft's smug upturned lips did nothing to appease him, and fury got the better of him bubbling to the surface. He launched himself at the other man, fist connecting satisfactorily with Mycroft's arrogant face twice before Lestrade pulled him off and wrestled him back to the sofa. Blood poured from Mycroft's nose, ruining the perfect white fabric of the armchair.

The sitting room door flew open and a young shaggy haired youth rushed in. "What's going on Mycroft? You ok? What the hell have you done to him?" he confronted Sherlock, whose wild eyes flicked from his bleeding brother to this new arrival. He was dressed similarly to Mycroft in jeans and a baggy t-shirt, but was  _significantly_  younger – obviously the reason for Mycroft's unlikely attire, and judging by Mycroft's embarrassed face, not meant to be anywhere near this room while he had visitors. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his brother, his sense of balance restored somewhat by catching his brother in a compromising position. Ignoring Sherlock, Mycroft patted the boy's arm.

"I'm fine Richard. My brother and I have had a slight disagreement, that's all. We have some things still to sort out, so would you mind leaving us to it?" Sherlock and Lestrade were amazed to see genuine warmth in the smile he bestowed.

"Ok, if you're sure? I'll be upstairs." They watched him leave in silence, waiting for the door to close once more.

"Care to explain? I'm assuming he  _is_  the right side of legal and you're not offering any sort of… incentives… for him to be here."

"Don't be vile Sherlock. We're both consenting adults, of age. Beyond that, it's none of your business. Now, have we concluded our discussion? I really am a very busy man." He rose, still pressing a wad of tissues to his bleeding nose.

"Where is Moriarty now Mycroft?"

Mycroft's shoulders slumped a fraction. "We don't know." He admitted. "But you are the perfect bait to tempt him. For some reason he finds you irresistible, little brother, and I'm rather counting on that."


	7. Big Brother is Watching?

Sherlock rested in his favourite chair, fingers steepled, right ankle resting on his left knee. He appeared lost in thought, oblivious to the activity that was going on around him in 221B. Mary and Lestrade were busy in the kitchen preparing dinner whilst John tapped at the laptop and made notes on a pad, trying to link James Moriarty with any activity of interest on news sites in the last few months.

"It would help if I knew the sort of thing I was looking for," he sighed. "There's no shortage of crime out there, but nothing to suggest Moriarty is involved in any of it. No patterns, no huge plots uncovered, no one dressed in explosives. Did Mycroft give you any idea of the type of work he was doing? Sherlock? Sherlock, are you listening to me?"

"No."

"No, he didn't tell you about the work, or no, you aren't listening?"

"I'm not listening," he said absently. "How would you reach every screen in the country, do you think? I mean, they won't all operate using the same software, yet Moriarty managed to take control of every form of electronic screen. How would he do that?"

"I haven't a clue Sherlock, I'm not a computer hacker."

"No. Do you believe the government is monitoring us constantly John? All of us I mean, not just you and I."

"Governments, security agencies… they're always denying that they do it, but I expect they have the means. It must take some pretty powerful software to sift through all that electronic data to find anything of relevance though. And surely anyone who has anything to say that they would be interested in would have encrypted it."

"If you think of all the millions of devices that are out there now, from mobile phones to televisions, computers to advertising screens, what is their main purpose?"

"Um… entertainment?"

"Communication, John. It's all used to control us, the public. It tells us what to buy, what to think, what to feel, what to watch, listen to, eat and drink. We consume information to the point of saturation, and still we're bombarded with more. It's about manipulation of the mind." He was pacing now, following a line of reasoning that John thought a little over-dramatic.

"Isn't this all a bit 'Big Brother is watching'?" he said, attempting to bring Sherlock back to the real world. "I mean, we're all beings capable of independent thought. No one blindly follows."

"Agreed. But if you were a criminal mastermind looking to discreetly take back control from a government that thought they had penned you, and bent you to their way of thinking, how would you do it? You can't leave the house, it's a prison by another name, but they have given you access to some of the world's most powerful security software technology and have tasked you with using your skills to break it. You'd be a good little hacker and do as you were asked, but wouldn't you be tempted to exploit any holes you found, rather than reporting them?"

"I guess so. Is that what Moriarty was working on?"

"Mycroft won't give me the details, but it was some sort of cyber-terrorism related activity. The problem with that is he could coordinate his criminal activities from pretty much anywhere in the world, so I find it intriguing that he is right here in London, don't you?"

* * *

Dinner was good, and the four of them relaxed around the table with only minimal talk of work. John complemented Greg on the delicious pasta dish he had created, and emphasised his enthusiasm by taking a third helping. Sherlock, who normally found food to be an unnecessary distraction, ate every scrap that Mary dished up onto his plate, then picked at the salad leaves remaining in the bowl, selecting the sweeter varieties and rejecting the bitter ones. The banter was comfortable and friendly, and Sherlock discovered he was actually enjoying the company for once. Mary and John offered to clear up, so he and Lestrade returned to discussing the case taking the last of the wine with them.

Ten minutes later order was restored to the kitchen and Mary went to hug her husband who was watching the two men in the chairs by the fire animatedly discussing some point. "Why so sad?" she asked.

"Just wondering how long it will take for that to become 'Greg's chair' instead of mine." He said, hugging her back. "Things change, I know that. In all that time we lived together I could never get him to eat a meal at the table, or voluntarily clear an old experiment out of the fridge, but suddenly he's doing those things for someone else. I suppose I'm a little jealous."

Mary squeezed him around the waist. "Silly... You and Sherlock are best friends, you love each other and that will never change. He's lonely that's all, still adjusting to life without you constantly here. Now Greg's on his own too, so they've found each other. It'll be good for them both."

"It won't last will it?"

"Not a chance," she laughed. "Sherlock will bend some law, Greg will arrest him, and they'll be threatening to kill each other within a week, as they always do, but right now they're fulfilling a mutual need. If one good thing comes out of it I hope it'll make Greg realise he doesn't need that cow of a wife."

"Mary! We don't even know her!"

"True, but it's the fourth time she's left in the time I've known him. He's a good man, he doesn't deserve that humiliation again."

He dropped a light kiss on her forehead. "I love you Mrs Watson."

"Love you too, now go help. I have some reading to do." She smiled fondly as John settled himself on the floor between the two chairs and soon the three men were deep in conversation. It was hard being the one to follow someone's true love, she thought.


	8. The Game is... Over?

Lestrade stood at the corner of the street, radio in hand, waiting for it to confirm Donovan was in place. He felt uneasy about this operation. Young mothers, and the occasional father, were gathering at the school gates waiting for the end of day bell. Within a few minutes the street would be awash with small children. The potential chaos that could ensue should Moriarty decide to make an appearance didn't bear thinking about. The radio crackled into life.

"We're ready. The subject is to the left of the gate. Do we wait until the child is with her?"

"Yes, wait. We need to ensure the girl is safe."

The bell rang and a tide of parents surged forwards to meet their children. Donovan kept her eyes on the dark haired woman who hadn't moved. She rocked the pram absently, her eyes scanning the crowd of short heads for her daughter. Suddenly she tensed, fingers curling around the plastic handles in a fierce grip. The policewoman followed her gaze and raised her radio to her mouth.

"Boss, we have a problem. Dark haired man approaching with the girl."

Lestrade uttered a string of curses as he recognised the figure sauntering towards his target. The little girl skipped happily beside him unaware of the tension that radiated from her mother. "Hold. We have to assume he's armed."

Moriarty gave Fiona's mother a dazzling smile and kissed her cheek, cupping her face tenderly. The little girl danced around him, tugging on his hand. He smiled at her and peeked into the pram, cooing at the baby. Lestrade watched the exchange anxiously. It was clear from the woman's rigid stance she wasn't comfortable with his presence but was too scared to make a scene.

"Sir?"

"Not yet. He's leaving."

"Do we stop him?"

"No, let him go, but as soon as it's clear take the woman and children."

Moriarty was walking towards him, unhurried and confident. His hair was much longer, pulled back into a loose ponytail, and he wore casual clothes instead of the smart attire he'd favoured two years earlier, but it was unmistakably the same man. He gave Lestrade a casual wave as he passed. "Say hi to Sherlock for me. I look forward to seeing him" He smiled and disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

Sherlock and John were already waiting in the adjoining room when the weeping woman was led into the interview room. She cradled her sleeping infant against her chest, gently rocking him to reassure herself. Lestrade sat across from her doing his best to appear non-threatening and sympathetic. Donovan leaned by the door wearing her usual scowl.

"What do you think?" John asked Sherlock.

"Not his sister. She was married to a brother, who I suspect is dead as Fiona claimed. The baby is Moriarty's I imagine. Late night visits to the mother when the girl was in bed. I don't think the Detective Inspector will get too much of use from her. She's terrified but smart. Stay here and let me know if anything interesting happens."

"Where are you going?"

"To renew my acquaintance with a certain little girl."

He found Fiona in Lestrade's office drawing pictures on the desk planner. He nodded to the policewoman sitting in the corner and pulled up a chair opposite, straddling it and leaning forwards against the backrest.

"Hi, remember me?"

"Of course, the man from the bus," she giggled in her lilting Irish accent, green eyes sparkling up at him.

"I enjoyed our game. I think you won though because I didn't spot Uncle Jimmy, did I?"

"That was really dumb you know? He doesn't even look like a lady. I got a prize though because you lost and that's what was supposed to happen. Are you going to be friends again now?"

"Friends?" Asked Sherlock puzzled.

"Yeah. Uncle Jimmy said you were old friends that needed to make up because you had a fight. I fight with my friends all the time but it's ok cos we always make friends again next day. It's boring when you have no one to play with. Uncle Jimmy says that too."

"Nice to know... Does Uncle Jimmy live with you?"

"No, but he comes round a lot since Billy was born. He lets me play with his phone. Look, he let me borrow it today." She took the phone from her coat pocket, a new model smartphone that he thought would be far too complex for a six year old but she operated it with ease. "Smile," she laughed as she snapped a picture of Sherlock with its camera. "Watch this, I can make you into a cartoon," she said, her tiny fingers manipulating icons and apps on the screen impossibly fast. "Look!" She held up the small screen in front of his face. Playing on screen was an animation of two characters, one with his head, the other with Moriarty's. He watched as cartoon Sherlock chased Moriarty around a blocky maze, repeatedly running into dead ends as Cartoon Moriarty easily navigated the puzzle and jumped up and down with glee at Sherlock's mistakes.

"Clever," he said. "He doesn't always win though."

"Yes he does." she tapped a few more instructions on the screen and suddenly the cartoon's electronic music was blaring from the PC on Lestrade's desk. Moments later the whole of Scotland Yard watched incredulously as cartoon Sherlock bumbled around the maze on every computer in every office. Officers and civilians pulled mobile phones from their pockets as hundreds of text alerts heralded the arrival of a new video message of the annoying little animation. Down the street and across the city the child's creation spread to every screen, repeating the miniature detective's failure over and over until tiny Sherlock waved his angry little fists at a jubilant miniature Moriarty. The image was replaced with a neon green flashing message - 'I win!'

"Awesome!" She cried,"can I do another one?"

* * *

Back at 221B Sherlock glared out at the rain-washed street, fiddling with the strings of his violin. His irritated sighs grew increasingly louder, a sure sign he was ready to talk, but would be damned if he initiated the conversation. Finally taking the hint John reluctantly looked up from his newspaper. "Ok?"

"If course I'm not ok, I've been humiliated around the world by a six year old girl's game! The criminal classes who once feared my intellect and reputation will be overjoyed! I will be spoken of in the same breath as  _dancing cats_!" He said distastefully.

"She had a little help, to be fair." John smirked, "and I'm sure the criminals of the world have better things to do than watch viral internet cartoons. Any sign of Moriarty?"

"Nope, no closer to finding him or determining what he's up to. Fairly clear it will involve electronic means though - this ridiculous stunt is just another demonstration of how far he can reach. Lestrade has the woman under surveillance but nothing so far. I don't think he'll leave them alone though, do you?"

"Fiona will be quite the little protégé. I get the feeling we'll be chasing her around the world in a few years."

Sherlock sighed once more. "Can't wait," he said gloomily. "Tea?"


End file.
